Suzy's Case: A Novel Read online

  I reach for it. “Thank you. It looks so good I can’t wait to taste it.” I turn it from side to side, deciding where to take the first bite.

  I bring it to my nose for a whiff. It smells buttery-corn scrumptious. As I open my mouth, I hear Connie, still brimming with the excitement of the settlement in her voice. “You’re going to love that cornbread!” she exclaims. “I had two pieces last night fresh out of the oven. It tastes just as good as it smells.”

  6.

  June and I leave the Supreme Court building together. We don’t say a word and we don’t look at each other. We just walk side by side down the courthouse steps right up to the hot dog cart. “What can I get you two?” the vendor asks.

  “Two dogs, please,” I reply. “One with mustard and kraut and one with … June, how do you take your dog?”

  She looks at the vendor. “I’ll take a sausage, yellow and dirty.”

  “You got it, lady,” he says. We take our foil-wrapped lunch and go over to the benches that line the walkway in front of the courthouse and sit.

  We begin eating in silence. I finish mine and look over at June. She catches my stare. “Yeah? Can I help you?”

  “I was thinking of getting that earlier. It smells good with those onions.”

  “It tastes just as good as it smells, counselor.” Then she gives me the “you know exactly what I mean” pause.

  “Yeah. Cornbread Connie. Who knew?”

  “That’s fucked-up. You’re thinking of dropping Suzy’s case, which I know is real, but you go to court on Connie’s, which is fake, and get her close to a million dollars.”

  “June, had I known she was faking I would’ve gotten out of it. Do you think I’d knowingly litigate in open court a fake case against the daughter of a federal judge?”

  “Say what you want. I still think it’s fucked-up.”

  She looks away and pushes the end piece of sausage into her mouth with authority, to punctuate her sentence. Some onion sticks to the corner of her mouth and I give her the international signal for “You got some stuff on your face.” She nods and takes care of it, licking her finger in a way I find … distracting. She’s stretching it out on purpose. And she knows I know.

  At the distinct roar of an approaching car, June looks up. “There’s my ride. See you tomorrow.” She stands and walks casually to an old black Impala that’s just pulled up to the curb. The paint and chrome are mirror finish, and there’s a discernable difference in the street noise level once the engine is turned off. Before I’m done taking an inventory of the car, a giant-sized black man gets out of the driver’s side, walks around the front, and opens the door for June. She gets in and he shuts the door like a true gentleman. He walks back around the nose, gets in, and ignites the engine, which rumbles like a well-tuned race car. I hear it shift into gear as it rockets away with a screech, leaving a tiny cloud of smoke. The license plate reads: THEFIDGE.

  I sit on that bench for two more hours. I eat two dirty sausages as I reflect on the morning’s events. I just pocketed over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars on a fake case, and I can’t say a thing to anybody in an effort to cleanse my soul without breaching my oath of confidentiality, losing my license, and risking a beating from an HIC. Connie’s scam was a secret to me until she admitted enjoying the cornbread. Before that, I was merely representing my client in a zealous manner, in conformity with The Rules, guaranteed to make Disciplinary Committee Judge Piccone proud. This is messed up. They should revise The Rules to cover real-life situations, because the etched-in-stone canons of ethics they contain just don’t work when it comes to preserving the integrity of the system.

  I get up to make my journey back to the office. I can’t wait to litigate a Benson case with actual merit. I’m going to make a fortune.

  Subject to Cancellation

  On my subway ride I decide I’m not doing any work when I get back to the office. Instead, I’m going to find a new primary care doctor on my health plan because based on how I feel right now, I’m going to need some drug therapy to quiet my nerves. Unfortunately, my old doctor just lost his license for injudiciously prescribing narcotic medications, which was the reason I chose him in the first place. In any event, I haven’t had a comprehensive physical examination in over three years, so I’m definitely due.

  I walk in the office and see Lily. “Do you have that book of doctors that are on our health plan?”

  “Of course. Why? Are you finally going to see a doctor for a medical reason, not just to get your pills?”

  “Just give me the book.” She does. “Did you call Judge Schneider and get an adjournment on the Williams motion?”

  “I called her, and she gave you two weeks.”

  I go into my office and open up the directory to the listing of primary care doctors. I start looking for ones within five blocks so I can walk there. I call the first geographically desirable doctor and the receptionist answers. “Hello, Dr. Abel’s office. This is Jean, can I help you?”

  “Hi, is Dr. Abel accepting new primary care patients?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Does he have any availability tomorrow afternoon?”

  “If you hadn’t called this very minute, you’d have had to wait three months, but I just had a cancellation. See you at three.”

  “Three is fine, but before I take the appointment, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure. What do you need to know?”

  “How tall is Dr. Abel?”

  “Hmm. That’s a strange question, but if you must know he’s about six foot two.”

  “I see. Forget about it. Thanks anyway.” Click.

  I make nine more calls using every bit of my charm before I’m able to find a doctor shorter than five foot six inches tall within walking distance who can squeeze me in tomorrow afternoon.

  It’s been a long day so I head directly home, seeking some comfort and security. Upon my arrival my wife meets me a few feet from the front door. “Good, you’re early. Change the lightbulbs in the garage,” she commands.

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Go out and pick up some dog food.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “And go plunge Penelope’s toilet.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  So much for comfort and security. And, “yes, dear” translated from pussy-whipped means “shove it.” But I have to keep in mind that it is Tuesday night.

  When I’ve completed the list, I enter the kitchen, where my children are seated around our oversized farm table eating pizza. As I walk in, they abruptly stop whatever they were doing, but I make no mention of their suspicious conduct. I grab the back of a chair with the intention of sitting and the kids start laughing.

  “What’s so funny, guys?” I ask.

  “Nothing, Dad,” Brooks and Connor chime. Penelope continues to laugh even harder. I sit down and all three start cracking up uncontrollably.

  “Come on, let me in on it. What’s so funny?”

  All respond with greater hilarity. “Nothing, Dad.”

  Just as I’m about to ask again, I feel something moist underneath me, so I pop myself up out of the chair. I look to the source and eyeball a pile of pizza sausage stuck to my butt. The kids are laughing hysterically.

  “Very funny, guys,” I say, which amplifies their laughter. “Why was there a pile of sausage on this chair?”

  Brooks, my nine-year-old and eldest, speaks for the group. “Mom ordered the pizza from a new place and we don’t like their sausage. It’s too chewy. So we were playing sausage basketball and using the chair as our hoop.”

  “Nice. You know the Old Marcolina never would have let you get away with that.” Marcolina was our old housekeeper and our young children have chosen to call her recent replacement “the New Marcolina” for the time being.

  “We know. That’s why we like the New Marcolina better,” Penelope, my six-year-old, explains.

  As I’m cleaning the sausage off my pants, I hear my cell phone start to ring. I ru
n to the mudroom dropping sausage on the floor, ensuring at least one more “yes, dear” if I don’t clean it up before she sees it. I can’t afford another “yes, dear,” because like I said, it’s Tuesday night, and based on how the day started with the Boca fiasco, I’m already behind the eight ball.

  By the time I get to the charging station, the phone has stopped ringing. I look at the call history and it reads: PRIVATE CALLER, which can suck for me. I may’ve just lost a really big case and I’ll never know it. I begin to walk back into the kitchen and my phone rings again. I quick-turn. “Hello?”

  “Hi. I’m sorry to bother you but this is really irritating me.”

  I recognize the voice. “June? June Williams?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. I’m really mad and upset.”

  “How did you get my cell number?”

  “I happened to see it posted above Lily’s desk when she was giving me the address where I have to meet you tomorrow for Suzy’s medical exam by the defendant’s doctor. The numbers were easy to remember, so I did.”

  “Kudos to you for your resourcefulness and memory, but try only to call it for emergencies.”

  “This is an emergency. I’ve been waiting years on this case and my lawyer’s telling me he may be deserting me.”

  “I’m not deserting you. I told you I was going to investigate things further. Listen, June, now is not the time or place to be discussing this. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  “You bet your ass we will,” June states heatedly. “The Fidge said if you don’t want to move forward on my case he’ll handle the situation, find me an attorney …”

  I interrupt. “Who’s the Fidge? The guy who picked you up from court today?”

  “No, that was Trace. He’s the Fidge’s driver, close personal friend, business associate, and right-hand man.”

  “Okay. Well, is the Fidge a lawyer?”

  “No, he’s not a lawyer, but he knows how to handle problems that come up in the community. You can always count on the Fidge. Anyway, you can’t go around handling fake cases like that Connie Cortez’s while dropping real cases involving little children like Suzy.”

  “Listen, June,” I say in a firm tone. “I don’t know what to make of Connie Cortez. All the doctors agreed she has a brain lesion, and that fact takes it out of the realm of a fake case. I’m sorry, but I got to go now. I have to clean a sausage mess from the floor before my wife comes down. I’ll see you tomorrow and we’ll talk about everything, including the Fidge.” I hang up.

  I can’t really blame June for feeling the way she feels, but I don’t have time to think about that now. I got to clean up the sausage stat or the night will be ruined.

  You see, this evening is Tuesday Night Hand Job. It’s a regularly scheduled event just like Monday Night Football. But unlike football, Tuesday Night Hand Job only occurs on every other Tuesday, and is subject to cancellation for a variety of reasons, known and unknown, without prior notice. And I have to be on my best behavior for the rest of the evening, because just after we were married it was Tuesday Night Blow Job, and there’re no downgrades from here.

  I wait until I know Tyler has changed, washed up, gotten into bed, played her iPad games, read her magazines, and is ready to reach for the light switch. If I enter our bedroom before that moment my longing gawk turns her off and can jeopardize things. Standing outside our door I hear some papers rustling, my signal it’s time to make a move. I enter and stand before her as she lies in bed. Tyler is absolutely beautiful. Big brown eyes, high cheekbones, luscious lips, strong jaw, and a body that could kill. I mean, why not, she works that five-foot-nine frame out six hours a day doing various activities. I have the one-two planned, and the one has to be executed before I get into bed.

  “Hi, honey,” I say, in a kind tone despite my lame sweet-talking abilities. “I’m really sorry about this morning. I just want to say I’m looking forward to going to Boca for the holidays and seeing your parents. I even spoke with a man of religion on the train about it this morning.”

  “Oh good,” she responds, “I’m glad you came around. It’ll be fun.”

  “Yes. Fun. It’ll be fun,” I repeat mindlessly. I get into bed and slide near her. She turns toward me. We are face-to-face and she smiles. Time for the two punch in this evening’s foreplay repertoire.

  “Honey, guess what? I settled a monster case today.”

  “Oh, really. How big are we talking?”

  “Nine hundred and fifty thousand.” I smile, beaming with achievement.

  “Wow. That is big,” she responds enthusiastically. Cool, I’m getting the HJ. I feel the blood rushing to where it has to go. “Is the fee all yours?” The blood slows.

  “Half, it’s an HIC case, one of Henry’s injured criminals.” I’d tell her about the fraud, but I don’t want to get involved in a diverting exchange.

  “That’s still a big fee.” Blood flowing furiously again, my boy is on the rise. She turns away and reaches for her light switch. What the … what the …? It’s hand job first, light switch second. That’s the routine. I disrupt her reach.

  “Honey!”

  She halts, a bit startled, and turns back to me. “What’s up, Tug? Why’d you ‘honey’ me like that?” Maybe she doesn’t realize today is Tuesday Night Hand Job.

  “I said I’m sorry about this morning … I’m going to Boca … I settled a big case today, and … it happens to be Tuesday night.”

  “Oh, yes, I didn’t realize,” she says in an apologetic tone. “I must have lost track of the days. So it is, Tuesday. Give me a sec.” Departing from the normal custom, she turns away and reaches again as I roll onto my back. I prefer this in the dark anyway and Tyler’s the one who insists on lights to aid in her cleanup duties. She flicks the switch off and I reposition myself just right. I’m ready, but she’s stalling on the rollback.

  “Honey,” I say, gently nudging, giving her sensual shoulder a soft touch. She motions, slightly, to start her rollback, then—

  “I had to play two tiebreakers today. My opponent was one of those tennis players who kept hitting it to my backhand, every shot, over and over again, and we had long rallies, each and every point. I hit backhand after backhand after backhand, all afternoon.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m all stroked out. You’re on your own tonight, Tug.”

  7.

  The sign on the door reads: DR. LEONARD HARPER. He’s a specialist in pediatric neurology. The best in the city, five years straight, according to New York magazine, which does an annual issue featuring the top doctors in town. He’s the guy doing the physical exam on Suzy, the so-called independent medical one. Most IME doctors are medical whores for the defense bar, who are handsomely paid to conclude that the injured plaintiff has made a complete recovery, but this guy’s a real doctor. I expect he’ll confirm Suzy’s pathetic condition without reservation and pin her disability on sickle cell complications.

  Before going in, I have to shake off my salty feelings from the cancellation of TNHJ last evening. I mean, it wasn’t like I was going for the forbidden fruit from the punany no-no bush, we’re talking hand job. I take a deep breath and say to myself, Accept what is.

  I enter and find June waiting in reception with Little Suzy and Dog. They’re wearing matching off-white pants with tan and red plaid tops. I realize they were dressed identically on Monday, too. How’d I miss that one? June stands and approaches. She’s got another big leather bag, this time tan-colored, which matches her hot boots. I guess that’s her look.

  She seems annoyed. “ ’Bout time.”

  I look at my fancy stainless and realize I should’ve worn my gold watch with this shirt-and-tie combo. What a loser I am. Not for wearing the wrong watch, but for giving it one second of thought. “June, I’m five minutes early.”

  “It’s common courtesy to arrive fifteen minutes prior to a scheduled medical appointment.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says every single medi
cal receptionist I’ve ever had contact with and that would be quite a few. So you’re ten minutes late.”

  “Sorry. Let’s try to move past this.”

  “Oh, I’m past it, yo.”

  “June,” I point out, “that’s the first time you’ve used slang.”

  “Well, you better hope you don’t hear it again. When I get mad I can’t control the ghetto in me.”

  “Then don’t get mad.”

  “I know this is just another case for you, Mr. Big-Time Lawyer, but this is my life and Suzy’s life, and you’re about to turn them upside down.” She gives me the stare. The emotions are love and hate. I’d love to get some of her, and maybe she hates me.

  We’re in a bad place and we’re only two days in. I’m pretty sure it’s my fault, so I need to change things. “You know something? You’re right,” I tell her. “I’ve been insensitive to your situation and I promise it won’t happen again. I can’t promise you I’ll continue with Suzy’s case, but I do promise to handle whatever time I have left in this matter with compassion and sensitivity.”

  “That’s acceptable. Now check in. We’re being rude.” I feel good about this interaction but question my own integrity. Was I taking the path of least resistance, or did I really mean what I said?

  Every Scar Has a Story

  We quickly find ourselves in an exam room. A moment later, a very distinguished elderly man walks in and looks at us. “Hello, I’m Dr. Leonard Harper and this must be Suzy,” he says, caressing her face with his soft old hand.

  The tactile stimulation brings a smile to Suzy’s face. “Sch-weet,” she says.

  “You’re the sweet one, darling,” Dr. Harper responds. He turns to June. “I’ll need you to disrobe this adorable little girl and put her in the gown hanging behind the door. I’ll be back in five minutes.” He leaves the room.